


let in the rain

by kyojinouji



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drifting Apart and Reconnecting, First Kiss, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Literally the death comes out of nowhere, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of Vaping, Mentions of alcohol, Mild Sexual Content, Note-Based, Post-Break Up, Some angst, Yunho is sentimental, author is projecting again, but its not between mingi and yunho, i'm struggling with tags rn so i'll be back to fix them later, that’s a big one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji
Summary: How many pieces of paper fit in the space between a canteloupe-colored wall and a doorframe? How many memories make up a lifetime? How many get left behind?Jeong Yunho has a hard time letting go of the past, but hopefully, he's not the only one.✧ this whole thing is vaguely inspired by two movies i've only seen the trailers for: 'columbus' and 'ghost story'. ✧
Relationships: Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi, Mentions of Choi San/Jeong Yunho, Mentions of Jeong Yunho/Park Seonghwa, Minor or Background Relationship(s), VERY Background Choi Jongho/Kang Yeosang, minor Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	let in the rain

**Author's Note:**

> ✧ Death is a MAJOR part of this fic. Please be warned! ✧
> 
> ✧ title from 'last night i watched myself sleep and i saw things i wish i could forget' by aurora view ✧

“You’re reading them again?” he asks, smiling when he’s handed a single piece of stationery. It’s thin, and obviously a ‘thank you’ note, but what catches his attention are the delicate lilies curving along its surface. “I gave you this one, didn’t I?”

“You remember,” the other says warmly, “that’s good.” 

He’s younger, not that age matters much here, but still smiles as though he knows all of the world’s secrets. He’s been here long enough that he might.

“Not much to remember,” the other murmurs, “you saved my life, you know. I think at some point I may have owed you everything.”

He passes over another slip.

“Well, I obviously didn’t do a bang-up job if you still ended up here.”

**_1 • “August 9th, 1999.”_ **

What does it mean to live? 

A few weeks ago, his grandmother fell ill. Everyone started using big words and whispering to each other, but that didn’t mean he never heard them. Especially when his father packed a bag and said, “If someone isn’t there when a loved one dies, did they ever live at all? Or do they wander endlessly, not realizing that they’ve even passed, because no one was there to tell them?” 

Yunho’s mom puts him on speakerphone every night so they can still have dinner together.

So, what does it mean to live?

Sitting on the blacktop of the playground, fingers wrapped around the stem of a daisy, eight-year-old Yunho might know. To live is to breathe. It’s the chance to watch the other kids as they sprint around playing some intricate game of cat-and-mouse. Or maybe, they were all just cats. He never thought to ask them what they were doing. All he had overheard was the constant threat of one ‘clan’ overtaking another ‘territory’— punctuated with a hiss.

So, maybe he doesn’t know what it means to live. He does, however, understand what it means to laugh. But the boy that slams down beside him with a gap-toothed grin and eyes that crinkle at the edges like the worn pages of Yunho’s mom’s bible does enough of that for the both of them.

“Do you like dandelions?” he asks, cocking his head and gesturing wildly at the flower Yunho had long since plucked from its home in the cracked pavement.

Yunho stares at him. Then, the white petals of the blossom. And then, back at his classmate. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

“It’s a daisy,” he says, his lips quirking up at the corners when the other boy’s mouth drops open. “Have you ever seen one before?”

“Of course,” he gasps, smacking Yunho’s shoulder playfully. “I was just making sure you knew.” When he smiles again, Yunho has to remind himself to breathe. “I’m Song Mingi. My birthday is August 9th, so you better remember it every year.”

“Jeong Yunho,” he responds with a goofy smirk of his own. He knows he’s missing his front tooth, but his dad says that it will grow back soon. Maybe, living is just leaving for a while before you grow back, fresh and sparkly. Like the daisy. Like the blush on Mingi’s cheeks. Like the air around them.

“Your birthday?” the other asks, fingers quick and nimble as he snatches the flower from Yunho’s hand. He tucks it easily behind his classmate’s ear with a chuckle.

“March 23rd,” Yunho whispers. 

“I won’t ever forget it.”

When Yunho goes home, he writes Mingi’s birthday on a scrap of notebook paper. Carefully, he folds it a few times; making sure to crease the edges. And then, he tucks it into the crack in his wall— just between the doorframe and the rest of the cantaloupe plaster. 

He had only noticed it one night when a tiny spider crawled into the gap. If something so tiny could live in such a tight spot, he’s certain his memories can too.

**_2 • “Smile”_ **

When his dad finally comes back home, the navy blue canvas suitcase he took with him is soaked from the rain. Its edges are nearly black in the dull, yellow light of their entryway. And at eight years old, it’s easier for Yunho to focus on every individual stitch than it is to hear what his parents whisper about in the kitchen. It’s also the first time he sees his father cry. The sight makes his chest constrict uncomfortably. 

It gets worse when his mother kneels before him, hand beneath his chin, and smooshes their foreheads together. He had planted himself on the step just inside their front door, hoping that an answer might waltz in behind his dad. Nothing followed but the delicate sound of rain pattering against the panes of their stained glass windows. 

“Yuyu,” his mother murmurs, forcing him to meet her gaze. “We need to go to the hospital now, okay, baby?”

“Why?” he asks.

All he really wanted to do was call Mingi and figure out the newest level of that RPG zombie game they found on an online forum. From the way his mom’s lips quirk downward, he knows that he would have to give up those plans for the night. 

“Grandma is really, really sick, baby.” His mother’s fingers brush the loose waves from his eyes. “I need you to be my brave boy, just for a little while. Will you do that for me?”

“Is Gunho going?” 

“Yeah,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye, “that’s why I need you to be his strong older brother.”

As they’re loaded into the car, Yunho doesn’t understand why it always seems to rain when tears run down his cheeks. He doesn’t understand why bad things happen to good people. He doesn’t understand why he always has to be the responsible older sibling.

But he does understand death. 

The kind where you don’t respawn at the portaling point. The kind where the gears in your heart just stop turning one day, like his grandfather’s antique clock or Mingi’s goldfish floating belly up around its tank last month. He remembers the way its fins stuck to the filter and the horrible sucking sound that came with it as Mrs. Song tried to scoop it up. 

He understood that death didn’t need a reason to be— it simply was.

So, when they got to his grandmother’s room, he knew what was coming before it happened. But he didn’t expect the feeling of weightlessness that came with her departure. As though all of the air in the room simply traveled with her, dancing away like sugar plum faeries, as her favorite jazz record slowed to a stop. 

Punctuated by the heart monitor’s endless screeching, her ballet came to a brilliant end. 

Yunho understood death, but that didn’t make things okay. 

At home, Mingi tapes an orange sticky note to his front door, smudged from the rain, that simply says, “smile”.

**_3 • “I like you.”_ **

###  Coming back to school was like walking a plank toward an uncertain abyss. 

The lady at the main office didn’t want to accept his week-long mourning right as an excused absence, for whatever bitter reason, and instead left it on Yunho’s record. While he could have just moved on, something about the blatant disrespect he was being shown made tears bubble up in the corner of his eyes. And like salt dumped into a festering wound, he sobbed in front of her until she re-coded his report.

He wasn’t willing to let anything push him away from perfect attendance.

But when he walked back down the endless hallways of his school, one thing was certain. He was exhausted and desperate to see just one smiling face in the crowd of pity. 

And it’s fate, it has to be, when Mingi rounds the corner. Thick rimmed glasses balancing on his nose, he bumps into Yunho’s chest with a muffled snort before realizing exactly who he collided with.

“Mingi?” Yunho asks quietly and begs his little voice not to crumble. There would be time for that later.

“You’re back?” Mingi cries and pulls Yunho into a bone-shattering hug. If Mingi was a plant, he’d be a venus flytrap. Vibrant and interactive; the way a pure soul was. At least, that’s what his grandma would say.  _ Would have said. _

“I’m back,” Yunho whispers against his best friend’s shoulder. 

School takes what feels like a million years. But as time passes, they bloom into bright young men on their way to greatness. Or rather, that’s what Mrs. Song sniffles about at their middle school graduation.

They would be going to high school separately. It wasn’t by choice, but it was the way things had to be. 

Yunho wanted to try for the arts school everyone talked about and Mingi was determined to go into psychology in university. Their paths didn’t line up in the proper way, but that never meant they would really be alone.

“We still have weekends,” Mingi said with a grin as he tossed another notebook into their cart. “And nights after school. Mom can’t keep me away from my best bud.”

Yunho snorted but didn’t say anything as he scooped two packets of ball-point pens from the upper rack. Even miles apart, they would match. They had to.

“And when you get asked out for the first time, you have to call me,” Mingi continues. With everything Yunho has in him, he prays that his heart doesn’t shatter audibly. 

He didn’t have a name for the fizzy feeling that started bubbling in his veins the previous summer. Really, it snuck up unexpectedly and seemed as though it wasn’t leaving anytime soon. 

Mingi was sunlight and Yunho was lucky just to slink through his rays like a tired cat. His only goal was to curl up and bask in the warmth until the feeling finally simmered. 

Yunho hums, hoping that his face isn’t nearly as red as it feels. “Will do,” he says softly and smiles when Mingi shoots him a thumbs up before pattering further down the aisle.

That year, Yunho does get asked out the first time. 

Of course, he does tell Mingi. However, he includes the embarrassing details of how the girl started crying after Yunho stumbled through some half-assed apology of not wanting to date. 

He leaves out the part where he accidentally told her that he was already in love with someone else.

It would be a lie to say he didn’t keep the note she left in his shoe locker though. With its delicate, looping pink handwriting and cutesy little frog drawn on the corner, he couldn’t bear to throw it out. Even if it did say, ‘ _ I like you _ ’ and he couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone having a crush on him. 

He adds it to the little collection of mementos. The ones he shoves into the crevice between the wall and the doorframe while praying his mom never notices them. It would be easier to explain why he was keeping notes scrawled with silly things than it would be to tell her why he even noticed the gap.

**_4 • “Happy Birthday– I miss you.”_ **

Daisies don’t bloom in winter– hardly anything does. Daisies don’t bloom in winter, but Yunho wishes they did. Because he’s sitting in the snow, pants soaked, and staring up at the one person he thought he would be with until the day he died. 

There is red spattering the endless white. Crimson dripping from Yunho’s nose. Scarlet on Mingi’s knuckles. And there are daisies on the ground, smashed and tainted by asphalt; still wrapped in the yellow and blue floral paper that Mingi bought them in.

Daisies don’t bloom in winter, but Mingi made sure to find some. 

“You’re an asshole,” the other says, already turning on his heel. He wipes the blood off on his khakis and all Yunho can think of is how quickly they need to treat the fabric with hydrogen peroxide. At least the stain wouldn’t be as noticeable that way.

“It’s my birthday,” Yunho mumbles.

It’s probably stupid to be so hyper fixated on such a trivial detail, especially when his best friend just socked him in the nose, but it’s the only thing he can utter. It’s his seventeenth birthday and he’s on his ass in the snow.

Mingi shoots him a terrible look like sour green apples dipped in lemon juice. 

“You kissed Dami,” he says, “why did I have to hear it from her friends and not you? I know we barely see each other now, Yun, but what the hell?”

And for the first time that afternoon, Yunho freezes. Not because of the snow or the chill biting his bones, but because Mingi is upset over something so ridiculous. 

“I didn’t kiss Dami,” he mumbles, placing a hand to the ground as he hoists himself onto his haunches. “Why would I possibly kiss Dami?” 

“She asked you out!” Mingi yells and finally whirls around to face him again. “Yoohyeon said that Dami was going to finally confess. They were all just pissed that we go to different schools, so they couldn’t record it.”

The thought makes Yunho nauseous. Not because Dami is unattractive, she’s quite literally one of the most beautiful girls Yunho has ever seen. But that’s the problem. He doesn’t want to kiss pretty girls. He doesn’t want his privacy invaded by her friends. 

He wants to kiss angel boys with fluffy hair and gummy smiles. He wants to love the man that looms over him, whose eyes aren’t usually so angry, and whisper poetics against his skin. 

So, forgive him if he snorts and flops backward onto the frozen earth with a dull thump. 

“Why are you laughing?” Mingi asks, glaring down at him when Yunho finally meets his gaze. Even as the overcast day spills over them, the sun halos Mingi in ethereal light. He’s a walking sunrise. 

“Because it’s my fucking birthday,” Yunho giggles, unable to stop the radiant sound from tumbling out of his throat, “and the guy I’ve been in love with since I was eight years old is asking me about kissing girls.”

The park feels silent. As though the world is blanketed in a thick layer of ice and they’re the only two left alive. He saw a movie about it once.

Despite the quiet, he doesn’t process the sound of Mingi’s knees hitting the snow beside him. But he does feel the way the man grabs his cheeks with both hands. 

“If you’re going to punch me again, just do it now. I want to get home before the sun sets and Gunho eats all of the ice cream cake.”

“Can I kiss you?” Mingi breathes out. It shatters the rigid tension that holds Yunho’s spine captive. When he finally can look into Mingi’s eyes, he sees that his pupils are blown impossibly wide. The black nearly consumes the chocolate of his irises, but that’s not what Yunho focuses on. Instead, he can’t tear his attention away from his own reflection.

And for God’s sake, he looks terrified. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, hardly getting the word out by the time Mingi’s lips are slamming into his. 

He doesn’t have any kissing experience, and as far as he knows, neither does Mingi. All he has is the horrible siren song in his head as the other presses their mouths together. Because, really, that’s all they know how to do.

It’s not romantic. It tastes like iron and whatever pure flavor pours from melting snowflakes. There’s blood still sputtering out of his nose and smearing along Mingi’s Cupid’s bow, but it doesn’t stop Yunho from cradling his jaw tenderly. 

When they separate, Yunho doesn’t feel different. There is no unnatural glow to his skin. There is no skip in his step when the other helps pull him from the frozen earth like a dandelion.

If anything, his heart breaks even more as he scoops the daisies from the asphalt. Tied to their wrapper with a pretty pink ribbon is a single note. 

‘ _ Happy Birthday– I miss you.’ _

**_5 • “I love you, forever.”_ **

During senior study hall, one of the girls Yunho would consider himself friends with brings up what she did over the weekend. 

“Three dots,” she says, grimacing when she thinks back to it, “that’s all that got on the sheets when he pulled out, but I bled all of Sunday too. It’s so stupid that a guy doesn’t have to worry about the pain.” 

“That’s horrible, Gahyeon,” Soyeon coos, running her fingers through the other girl’s hair. “You’ll be gentle when you have sex with your girlfriend, right, Yunho?” 

He stops chewing on the end of his pen long enough to raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t really know these people. Not well, at least, and most certainly doesn’t want to be privy to this conversation. 

But, he has a reputation to uphold. The easygoing boy-next-door; the puppy who never complains and talks to everyone. 

He thinks about how to explain that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He has a Mingi. A pretty boy with long eyelashes and a heartstopping smile. 

But they don’t know that, and really, he isn’t willing to tell them. So, he offers a convincing thumbs up and nods.

The discussion haunts him though. All the way through choir and dance lessons. All the way home as he takes the long way past the park. All the way to the convenience store on the corner where he stands in the condom aisle, looking like a lost fawn when he sees the security plastic on all of the boxes. 

Who the fuck locks up condoms? 

“Do you need help?” a guy asks, Australian accent thick. He’s not in uniform, meaning some innocent bystander is the primary witness to his absolute crisis. Something he hasn’t even talked to Mingi about yet. 

Why did Yunho even come here anyway?

“I...yeah,” he stutters, rubbing the back of his neck with a sweaty palm, “why are there so many choices?”

The guy snorts and immediately Yunho realizes that they can’t be that far apart in age. He looks like he’s only a year or two older, especially when he adjusts his backpack. 

“I ask myself that same thing every time I come here,” he says, smiling when Yunho gives him a wide-eyed look. He must look like a terrified doe right now; ready to high-tail it out of there any second. “This might sound invasive, but I gotta ask you a few questions to get you sorted out, okay? If it makes you uncomfortable, just tell me.”

They run through a list of things that Yunho couldn’t have even imagined being important to the situation. Size, of course, but ribbing? Lubrication? Flavor? He doesn’t know what kind of answers to give this dude. And the man picks up on it instantly. 

“First time?”

“Is it that obvious?” Yunho whines, covering his ears. They’re burning, just like his cheeks, and he wants to curl up into a ball to cry. Especially when the guy chuckles again.

“Little bit, don’t worry though. That’s just how things go, bub,” he glances down the aisle, checking for other shoppers, before turning to Yunho with another serious look. “I’m going to be very honest too, alright? Rubbers are easy to pick out after a while. Just check-in with what your partner thinks feels good and avoid what they don’t like. But I feel like you’re flying a little blind, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yunho mumbles, trying not to flush even deeper.

“It’s okay! I promise, you’ll be okay,” the guys says, patting his shoulder gently. He gestures toward the row of Durex and Trojan with a soft smile. “I trust that you can read about sizes yourself and figure out what applies most to you. I’d say start with any of the regular stuff before you start jumping into those pleasure packs,” he points to a purple box of Trojan featuring labels like ‘ _ intense’, ‘warming, ‘spiral’, _ and  _ ‘for her’.  _

“Uh,” Yunho stutters, lifting one of the suggested cartons from the shelf. It jostles around in its plastic security tank as he squints inside– like it’s a betta in a cup. “What does it mean by lubricant?”

The other guy pauses, eyes wide, and covers his mouth slowly. Obviously, the last thing he expected on his convenience store run was to give some high schooler a sex-ed talk. He recovers with grace, however, and delves right in.

“It makes things a bit easier for your partner. More comfortable, really. Sex can be super painful if there isn’t enough prep. Speaking of,” he glances over his shoulder at a row of what look to be lotion tubes, “I won’t ask if your partner is male or female, but I do suggest you look up as much as you can about foreplay and prep before you actually do anything. I’ll head out in a second, that way I’m not pressuring you, but I would recommend you buy a bottle of lube too.” 

As he leaves, he grabs one of the security boxes from the Durex row and finger guns in Yunho’s direction. The moment he’s out of sight, Yunho feels himself sway in embarrassment. 

He chalks the boy’s existence up to being his personal guardian angel before opting for all of the suggested products. 

Of course, he dreads dumping them onto the counter, but the cashier only smiles. Things could, without a doubt, be worse. 

At home, he throws everything into the bottom of his sock drawer and prays his family never thinks to open it. 

That night, he dreams of three red splatters speckling his sheets, bloody knuckles, and Mingi’s face in the mirror. Just before his alarm wakes him, he can hear the desperation in Mingi’s tone as he cries, “Out, damned spot!”

He doesn’t forget about his purchases, but he also doesn’t make it a point to bring it up to Mingi when they finally have time to see each other. There are other things they would rather spend the evenings doing like playing Mario Kart or watching superhero movies. 

Or kissing until their lips are bruised and Mingi’s flushes the same color as his socks. 

Yunho doesn’t bring it up because they’re still kids. They’re in high school and know little to nothing about their own bodies, let alone each others’. And to be honest, the conversation in the convenience store made him realize a few things. 

The first being that he never, ever, wants to hurt Mingi. But then again, maybe it’s bold of him to assume he would be on top. Which brings him to the second point, he didn’t even know the logistics of sex between two males until he looked it up. He knew, approximately, what was supposed to happen. However, in all of his adolescent dreams, there had never been prep. 

So, the night that Mingi actually says something along the lines of, ‘do you want to?’, Yunho’s reaction is probably the last thing he expected. 

“Ah,” he murmurs, pulling away from the mark he was sucking onto Mingi’s neck. It was just low enough that no one else would see it. Yet, somehow, the secret only made more heat pool low in his stomach. 

The floor is littered with empty take-out containers. On the sheets, half a dozen fortune cookie papers are scattered around them like confetti. But still, it’s the kind of night Yunho won’t forget.

“Is that a no?” Mingi asks, a frown marring his beautiful face. 

“No, no!” Yunho cries and rolls off of the other to sit up straight. He had no idea when they had even sprawled out on his bed or how Mingi wound up beneath him. All he knew was that he made the prettiest noises when they kissed.

Mingi’s lips quirk up as he shifts to mirror Yunho’s position.

“You’ve thought about it, then?”

“Of course,” Yunho whines, covering his ears, “how could I not?”

“Well,” Mingi smirks, pressing a chaste kiss to Yunho’s nose, “so have I. And I want my first time to be with you, daisy.”

The brilliance that radiates from Mingi’s loving gaze blooms spring in Yunho’s chest. Clovers, dandelions, the whole works– they sprout from his bones like that is all he is made of. Feeble flowers and Mingi-blossoms. 

“Me too,” Yunho whispers, “I bought stuff a while ago, but I was scared to tell you.”

The admission pulls an unexpected guffaw from Mingi’s lungs. 

“You won’t believe this, but I did too,” he says, grin only growing when Yunho’s laughter joins in with his, “some Australian guy helped me because I looked like a dweeb.”

“I do believe it though,” Yunho giggles, “though, I think we may have met the same angel.” 

From this close, he can press a thousand kisses to Mingi’s bottom lip. But for now, it might be best to start with one. 

The thought of crimson droplets never leaves his mind. Maybe, he should thank the girls that he sits with during study hall. Because of them, he does remember to love gently. Although, he’d like to take some of that credit for himself too.

When he wakes up, Mingi is doodling on the leftover fortunes that fluttered to the floor. With a sugary smile, he feels a single piece of paper pressed into his palm. 

_ ‘I love you, forever.’ _

**_6 • “forever.”_ **

He’s cleaning out the drawer when he finds it. A wrinkled note, ripped in half, and only legible as the remnants of ‘forever’. He probably tore it when he yanked it out of the drawer’s corner. And anyways, forever didn’t last the way it should have. 

Not when Mingi pushed him from his life the day after graduation. There had been no explanation, no message. Just the notification that he had been apparently blocked on every portion of social media known to man. 

What kind of forever ends at eighteen?

He doesn’t know where Mingi went away to university. When they stopped speaking, stopped dancing around each other like ghosts in a damp battle-valley, he had yet to accept an offer anywhere. Or maybe, he just never had applied.

Yunho doesn’t think it’s his business if the other didn’t want him there. 

So, forever is a silly word. But he doesn’t throw away the fortune cookie paper that it’s scribbled on. 

He tucks it into the space between the doorframe and the wall. It’s not full enough to see all the little memories he’s stuffed inside, but if he looks closely, their edges are visible. 

One day, when forever doesn’t threaten to suffocate him, he’ll take a peek. That way, he’ll know it’s the end.

But the boxes he’s stuck packing are stacked high; wiggling towers of uneven catastrophe. He’s only spoken to his roommate a handful of times since they were assigned, a bubbly guy named Choi San, but he knows that there’s a bond there already. 

Yunho doesn’t exactly believe in soulmates, but he wonders if San has one. They hadn’t talked about that kind of nitty-gritty topic yet, but he can only imagine the late-night conversations they will have. When they’re drowning in the deep, dark confines of their dorm room— sprawled on the thick foam and plastic covered XL-twin mattresses— he knows they’ll make memories.

And he’s entirely right, because the moment he walks into their space on move-in day, he’s met with a dimpled grin and strong hug.

San is shorter than him by a good few inches. When they hug, he rests his cheek on Yunho’s shoulder like it belongs there. And maybe it does. 

“You didn’t mention that you could drop kick me across campus, daddy-long-legs,” San laughs, skittering out of the way when Yunho aims to pinch his nose. 

He doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he might believe in fate.

**_7 • “October 24th, 2018.”_ **

He dreamt often of daisies and dandelion fluff, for no other reason than the gap-toothed grin haunting his memories. That didn’t mean he avoided parties or never looked for anyone to occupy his thoughts instead.

Yunho lived the way that he believed Mingi would have hated. Bright lights and bone-shattering music pounding through slowly crumbling college housing. A market of bodies only down for the grace of sweat and the honey that came from desperate tongues. 

Which is to say, Yunho didn’t remember what it meant to be fucked like a lover rather than a doll. And maybe he didn’t believe in soulmates, but he did long for gentle fingertips dancing over his skin rather than the bruising grip of the man he was with now.

He liked Seonghwa plenty- with his hair plastered to his forehead from the party’s heated atmosphere and the flush that painted his tits like the surface of Mars. There was nothing wrong with the man that he somehow pulled into his orbit every time they drank; every time San left them alone while he went in search of his own friend-with-benefits. 

He liked Seonghwa enough that he didn’t mind the way his canines carved patterns into the curvature between his neck and shoulder. He liked the sounds the other made when he opened himself up for Yunho’s dick and the breathy little noises pleading him to _ just get on with it. _

But Mingi made the same ones when they were together. His were deeper, rumbling in his chest instead of the back of his throat. Fossilized in his bones and only fissuring when they made love— soft or rough. Yunho just liked those more.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Seonghwa whines, gripping Yunho’s hips tighter. They’d have to talk about that eventually; the marks never seemed to go away by the next time they were in each other’s bed. They were pretty, mottling his skin in red and purple, but always served as a reminder he wasn’t sure he enjoyed. Not with the way it sputtered like toxic waste in the pit of his stomach.

Seonghwa clenches around him, spilling on his abs, but doesn’t budge when Yunho tries to pull out.

“Hwa,” Yunho murmurs, afraid to overstimulate the other. However, Seonghwa bites down on his shoulder in retaliation.

“You haven’t finished,” he says, rolling his hips again despite the tremors that shake his body when he does. And Yunho doesn’t fight him. He learned weeks ago that it would be stupid, especially with the determination that flickered in the other’s gaze. 

Because behind closed doors, they knew what others didn’t. They were two halves of an ancient whole never meant for each other. Both were desperate to drown out that siren song, shaped like ghosts of their pasts, that threatened to pull them further into their souls. 

So, Yunho lets him do as he pleases and rides out his own orgasm as he comes into the other with a wince. Of course, it was pleasurable, but the guilt would never stop gnawing at his fingertips when he unwound them from the sheets. When he finally pulls out and flops next to Seonghwa, the older grimaces. 

“Sorry,” he says, his attention drilling into the bite marks he left on Yunho’s skin. “I was a little rough again, wasn’t I?” His voice is heavy, but the breathlessness that mingles with it reminds Yunho of a lingering storm. 

Yunho hums softly, curling into Seonghwa’s side like he’s meant to be there. He barely had anything to drink tonight, and yet, he still found his way back into Seonghwa’s arms. 

“Something set you off, didn’t it?” Yunho asks, carding his fingers through the other’s hair. “You’re not usually so demanding.” 

Seonghwa snorts and smiles softly as he leans into Yunho’s touch. 

“I’m always demanding,” he says, “and honestly, so are you. I didn’t feel like you were here tonight though.” His thumb runs gently over the curve of Yunho’s cheek. 

And he was entirely right. Yunho’s mind had fucked off to God knows where the moment his lips closed around the bottle of green apple Ice. The glass rim had clinked against his chattering teeth as he watched a man thirty-feet below the balcony press another into a nearby fence. He hadn’t seen their faces, but the way their fingers intertwined with the chainlink made him believe that they were happy. 

He’s certain that even if Seonghwa hadn’t approached him first, he would have sought after the man anyway. Anything he could do to forget the image of the couple. Call him a nuisance for finding bitterness in someone else’s joy.

Back inside, Seonghwa had apprehended him with a desperate look and petulant frown. It was the same panicked expression that always left Yunho searching for an empty bedroom in whatever unfamiliar apartment they were stuck at. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, raising a brow when Seonghwa silences him with a chaste kiss. “Seonghwa, seriously.” 

“I saw Hongjoong,” he mumbles finally and untangles himself from Yunho’s impossibly long limbs. “He was making out with some guy from his major. He always told me that he wasn’t a threat.”

And Yunho has to bite back the response that technically, he wasn’t. Not when Seonghwa was no longer dating Hongjoong. Instead, he nods against the stranger’s pillows and shifts himself into an upright position. 

The red cotton of his underwear feels suffocating when he pulls it back over his ass and the black thermal clings to his torso as it sticks to his sweat-misted skin. He wishes that they had more time to cuddle in the afterglow or that he could get Seonghwa into a shower to clean him up. However, when he even suggests wiping the older man down, since they still have to go find San in the crowd, Seonghwa chuckles against his lips. 

“I’ll be honest,” he says, voice low and silken, “I like the way it feels. No one else knows that you fill me up so well, Yun.” It’s with another lingering kiss that he opens the bedroom door and pulls Yunho back into the writhing, purple-tinted chaos. 

When they run into San again, he’s sitting in the upstairs laundry room on top of the washing machine with someone’s vape between his fingers. He catches sight of the marks littering Yunho’s neck, revealed by the black top’s deep ‘V’, and raises a single brow. 

“Shit,” he says, breathing out a thick cloud of blue raspberry vapor, “didn’t know you were dating a vampire.”

“Not dating,” Yunho shrugs and holds out his hand for the piece. It’s a pretty little thing, the same Uwell Caliburn he’s had his eye on for nearly two months. The pink to blue gradient was probably more attractive than the positive reviews he had seen plastered across sites.

Spending nearly thirty-bucks on a pod system wasn’t going to be his best option, though. Not as a university student already drowning in debt. For one, he couldn’t afford to wake up every morning and hack his lungs out. Two, he learned the hard way just how shitty nic-deprived headaches made him feel. 

“Who’d you pop this off of?” Yunho asks, flipping it around in his fingers to peer into the tiny plastic window at the side. The pod was still half-full and the justice hadn’t gone amber yet. Before he places it against his lips, San grins at him.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” his roommate asks.

Yunho pulls from it, listening to the way its coils fire up instantly. It doesn’t take much effort to suck the vapor into his throat or to let the taste coat his tongue pleasantly. When he finally opens his mouth, San drags him closer until their lips brush. He wasn’t certain that they should shotgun from a vape, but if it made the other happy, he wasn’t going to stop him.

“One-hundred percent,” Seonghwa chuckles as Yunho tosses the slim machine his way. 

Even as San presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips, Yunho doesn’t get a straight answer from the boy. Instead, he rambles about someone he met downstairs, entirely unrelated to the vape, and how he tried to blow him in the hall closet.

“You didn’t let him?” Yunho asks as they make their way back out of the party. Somehow, he ends up pocketing the Caliburn. It’s not like the owner would miss it, or maybe they would. Frankly, he can’t bring himself to care.

San snorts and pushes two fingers against Yunho’s chest. He stumbles, gracelessly, and nearly plummets off of the sidewalk by the time someone catches him. 

“Watch yourself,” his savior mumbles, falling eerily silent as Yunho tries to focus on his face. In his drunken haze, the most he can make out is a pair of dark eyes and messy red hair. 

He doesn’t want to meet people tonight anyway. 

So, he utters a quick ‘thank you’ before continuing down the road as if nothing happened. However, the feeling of familiarity haunts him; like a gap-toothed grin or memory of a goldfish floating at the top of a beloved tank. But the man doesn’t call out and he doesn’t have it in him to turn around.

It’s only the next morning, when his sheets smell faintly of booze and San brushes his teeth at their ensuite sink, that he remembers slamming into some unknown figure.

“Hey, that guy last night,” he starts, rolling onto his stomach so that he faces his roommate, “did I know him from somewhere?”

San spits into the sink past a baffled snort. 

“Why are you asking me if you know someone, dude?” he asks, sock-clad feet scuffling across the speckled linoleum. “I’ll be honest, I don’t remember what he looked like. Wooyoung started tossing back Jell-O shots around midnight and I tried to keep up with him. Everything after that’s a blur.”

Yunho hums and fumbles for his phone with a grunt. The screen showcases a simple  _ ‘October 24th, 2018’,  _ and a list of missed texts. Not that he was planning to answer any of them anyways. 

“Why did we go out on a Tuesday night?” he whines, pouting when San flops onto his mattress. “I have class at 1:30 PM and smell like half of a brewery.”

San presses his cold fingers to the back of Yunho’s neck with a sadistic smirk. 

“Boo-hoo,” he says and giggles when Yunho screeches, “you have three hours. That’s plenty of time to shower and do whatever it is to make your hair retriever-chic.”

“I literally just air dry it.”

“Shut the fuck up. Some of us have to work to achieve greatness, puppy.” 

San isn’t wrong though. It only takes him an hour to get ready for the day and actually wiggle his way into non-toxic clothing. So, with a quick wave and a spring in his step, he dashes toward the corner cafe like a man on a mission. When it came to his long-awaited vanilla and white chocolate latte, however, he essentially was. 

The bell rings gently as he throws open the door to the tiny space. It was more of a hole in the wall than it was an upscale establishment, but that made it cozy. Like the kind of place he would have sought out on a rainy day just to watch the storm brew from somewhere safe and warm. 

Maybe that’s why his steps stall when he catches sight of a familiar mess of red hair. No doubt, the back of his head matches the color of the man’s last night, but that’s the only thing Yunho can recall. He doesn’t dwell on it as he sidles up to the counter and grins at the barista.

Kim Hongjoong follows his every step with narrowed eyes. When he finally opens his mouth to spit out his order, the man is already poking it into the machine with a frown. 

“What if I wanted something different, hyung?” he mumbles, pressing his phone to the scanner. The payment flashes green as Hongjoong offers him a single-shouldered shrug. 

“You were up late,” he says shortly, “Seonghwa really did a number on your neck last night, huh?” 

It’s not the sort of comment he wants to hear from Seonghwa’s ex-boyfriend. Not to mention, he has no idea how the other even pieced two and two together. Until suddenly, he remembers the way Seonghwa practically dragged him through the party in search of an open room. 

“Hongjoong–” 

“He’s not mine anymore, Yunho,” the older man brushes him off with an uneasy sigh. “And I’ll be honest, you’re one of my best friends. I’m not pissed that you’re hooking up with him, but I’m also more than aware of his intentions.”

The phrasing trips him up. Thankfully, there is no one else in line, because he has the sudden fear that this conversation might take longer than a few moments. 

“What do you mean?” Yunho asks slowly. 

Hongjoong looks three seconds from ripping his own hair out and ushers Yunho to the end of the pick-up counter. The other barista on duty doesn’t bother to pay them any mind. 

“I saw you guys last night. Mostly, someone kissed me and I was stupid enough not to push him away before Seonghwa stumbled in on us. I tried to follow him, to tell him that it was a misunderstanding, but he was already dragging you off for a quick fuck.”

“Shit,” Yunho whispers. His spine was ice dipped in the summer Atlantic; melting beneath the waves as though it was always meant to be one with the ocean. 

“I’m not angry,” Hongjoong adds, waving his hands frantically. “As I said, he’s not mine. I ruined that myself and I don’t expect him to forgive me anytime soon, but–”

“Hey, hyung?” Yunho asks, smiling at the other barista when his drink slides across the surface. Hongjoong cocks his head, dark eyes wide. “Reach out to him. It couldn’t hurt.” 

He turns on his heel, waving off the man’s sputtered response, and wanders toward the backroom. His favorite couch was hopefully available, and if it was, he would never pass up a chance to sprawl out on it. 

However, he catches a vibrant flash of red from his peripheral. A wild mess of waves, some patches tangerine, and his roots naturally brown. 

The man from last night, he thinks. But before he can spin to a halt, the figure retreats outside. Far out of reach and probably late to their class. 

So much for thanking him for not letting Yunho’s ass bite the pavement. 

However, Yunho isn’t out of earshot when he hears it, a hushed name he never thought he would hear on this campus. Far from home and lightyears from the seasons they spent beneath faery lights and silly band posters. Away from the nights they busked in the city and the memories they carved into the bark of life. 

“Fucking Mingi,” the barista on shift with Hongjoong mutters, “he left his headphones on the table again. How many times is that?”

“You know how he is, Yeosang,” Hongjoong says with a delicate smile, rounding the counter to pick up the forgotten wire. “If it’s not attached to his body when he’s running late, then it’s staying here until he pops by later tonight.”

Yeosang hums but looks even less pleased when Hongjoong tucks the headphones into his apron pocket.

“Can’t you just give it back to him at the studio? I feel like it’s stupid to make him come all the way back here,” he asks, pushing a long tendril of blonde behind one ear.

Hongjoong’s chuckle is bell-like when he leans against the table. 

“Where’s the fun in that? At least this way, he has to buy a coffee.”

The conversation is like the buzz of static on an ancient box television; the kind that still played MTV’s best music video hits and Toonami late at night. Or maybe, all cable still worked like that, but he wouldn’t know.

It’s a different brand of nostalgia that washes over Yunho like spring rain.

“Hyung,” he calls, taking a few steps toward the baristas again. Hongjoong looks up with a bewildered expression, obviously not certain why Yunho is stumbling in their direction again. However, he locks onto the panic that drenches Yunho’s expression easily. 

“Yun–”

“His name,” he says, breathless, “did Yeosang say that guy’s name is Mingi?”

Hongjoong glances toward his co-worker with a frown but nods nonetheless. Yeosang places his elbows on the counter, brows furrowed, and squints in Yunho’s direction as though he can’t quite put the pieces together. Why would he be able to anyways?

“Song Mingi,” Yeosang says finally. Apparently, Yunho passed whatever silent scan he had been put through. “Do you know him?” 

And for a moment, Yunho is silent. Did he know Mingi? He couldn’t even recognize him the night before, yet–

“Yeah,” he says finally, “I used to.”

When he gets back to his dorm, he scribbles the date on a fluorescent orange sticky note. 

‘ _ October 24th, 2018.’ _

_**7** _ **_• “Thank You, Always.”_ **

Seonghwa slides a note under his door’s gap a week later. It’s written on pretty stationery, covered in delicate lilies, and Yunho has to bite back the urge to laugh at the irony. Not only is Seonghwa giving him a paper decorated with a flower of purity, but he’s also thanking him for getting dick back in his life. Or rather, a specific dick that didn’t belong to Yunho. 

But he’s proud. Seonghwa deserves clarity and happiness with the person Yunho is certain may be his soulmate– if they were really out there. 

He tapes it to the inside cubby of his desk and grins when San flops onto his bed to peek at the cursive. 

“Hyung has really nice handwriting,” he says, thumbing over the black ink with a raised brow. “Do you think he’d be willing to give me a sample for my next tattoo?”

Yunho shrugs, ignoring the clinical tone that comes with San’s question. When it came to art, it was like San entered a different body entirely. They had talked about it before, of course, but it didn’t mean that his experience was universal.

“It’s the only thing that makes the world slow down for a second,” San had said, twirling a charcoal stick like a cigarette. “Sometimes, I don’t need it to be quiet. But working with my hands makes it feel less like I’m about to become a rocketeer.”

“A lifeboat,” Yunho offered. When San nodded, they dropped the conversation. Possibly for another day. Or maybe, just never to be touched again. 

Present-day San snorts when Yunho asks if he wants to go grab lunch with the newly reconnected couple. Were they bound to be insufferable? Undoubtedly. But if his friends were happy, then so was he. 

What he doesn’t expect is the mess of red curls sitting at the table when they arrive. 

“Fuck,” Yunho murmurs and tries to duck behind one of the restaurant’s circle booths. San and his fuckbuddy, someone he was introduced to as Wooyoung, both dive with him. It’s probably comical for anyone on the outside, but for Yunho, it’s a safety mechanism. 

“Why are we hiding?” Wooyoung whispers. His dark hair has been pulled into a little bun on top of his head, and if Yunho was in the right mind, he might process the fact that the tiny glass window in the seat they’re hiding behind reveals everything. 

“Crash course? The redhead at our table is someone I used to be best friends with. I guess you could call him my ex-boyfriend too, but...” he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Not as his mind fills with static.

“I didn’t know he went here,” San says, “you said you lost contact.” 

Yunho frowns and peers over the side of the wooden booth. Beside Mingi, Hongjoong and Seonghwa have already settled into their seats. The couple had taken the time to warn him that Yeosang would be bringing his boyfriend, but there had been absolutely no mention of Mingi. 

“He blocked me on literally everything,” Yunho says and ducks back down when he catches Hongjoong’s squinted stare from across the room. It reads as a ‘get your ass over here right now, you absolute gremlin’. 

They don’t have time to discuss it, though, because someone is tapping his shoulder from behind. When Yunho spins around, Yeosang’s gaze is narrow and absolutely lost. He hardly knows the man, but no doubt he’ll never live this down. 

“Should I ask why the hell you all look like you’re playing Warrior Cats at recess?” he tilts his head with the question, reminding Yunho of a Shiba Inu. However, he kneels down next to them anyway. “Does this have to do with Mingi?”

“Why do you know about the Mingi situation?” San asks, glancing between the two. “I barely know about it and I live with Yunho.”

Yeosang doesn’t answer him. Instead, he places a hand on Yunho’s arm with a sigh. 

“I know you guys have issues with each other, but let’s just see how this goes, okay? He asked me about you.”

So, Yeosang was the reason that Mingi came along. However, Yunho can’t find it within himself to be angry at the boy. Especially not with the man standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest. 

Yeosang’s boyfriend, no doubt, cool crush Yunho’s skull between his muscular thighs.

“Right,” Yunho says slowly and pushes himself from the floor. Evidently, their display attracted the attention of nearby groups. They probably looked suspicious as hell. 

When he turns, he falls directly into Mingi’s line of sight. In slow-motion, he watches the shock wash over the man’s features. His mouth falls into a plush pink ‘o’ as his cheeks flush. With embarrassment or anger, Yunho can’t be sure. 

The red head’s stare drills into him for a breath before he’s suddenly paying more attention to the table-top than he is to Yunho. But for Yunho, it’s the uneasy feeling of wooziness that beats at his ribs when the full brunt of the experience hits him. 

Song Mingi is here– absolutely stationary. Here in a place that Yunho sought out for himself. With the people Yunho had found on his own. And for the first time in months, he’s furious.

It takes six strides before he’s throwing himself into a chair at the far end of their table. He catches the way Hongjoong’s frown grows but doesn’t have it in himself to fight. 

“Yunho,” Seonghwa says, leaning forward, “Did you get my note?”

“I did, hyung,” Yunho grumbles. He could put on a sickly sweet facade, but right now, the only thing he wants to do is run. Mingi is a threat to everything he considers safe; the world he built himself once Mingi left him stranded and alone. 

Seonghwa knows not to push the envelope too far. And yet, he still reaches out to cup Yunho’s chin with a pout. 

“Yun,” he says, eyes glittering with some morbid cross of interest and sympathy. It’s the kind of look he would give Yunho right before asking for the impossible. “Smile, baby.” 

The pet name makes Yunho’s spine go absolutely rigid. It’s not like the man didn’t call everyone in their friend group by the same tone, but it also wasn’t in the presence of Hongjoong. Or of course, their other guests.

However, a glance toward Hongjoong, however, reveals nothing but amusement painting his features. 

Yunho bats Seonghwa’s hands away with a grunt just as San settles into the seat next to him. The dimpled boy smirks at the interaction and offers a lewd gesture before facing the rest of the group. 

“I didn’t know you had so many friends, hyung,” San says, laughing when Hongjoong spits out something about not being a Hobbit. A chill runs down Yunho’s spine when San holds out his hand to Mingi. “Choi San, Yunho’s roommate and best friend.”

Mingi’s eyes go wide as he stares at the other man like he’s grown another limb. San, sensing the tension, wiggles his fingers with a whine. 

“Song Mingi,” Mingi says finally. And God, if green apples had voices, they would be like Mingi’s. Vibrant and sparkling with a richness so deep that it was refreshing. It makes Yunho shrink into his seat like a violet.

Wooyoung, tied to the same wavelength as San, builds off of the energy with an excited smile.

“So, how do you know our lovely little hyung, Mingi?” he asks and the corner of his lips quirks up like a check. Or maybe more like the Nike swoosh on Yeosang’s boyfriend’s shoes that Yunho can’t tear his attention from. The guy doesn’t seem to mind, instead radiating empathy when Yunho accidentally meets his eyes.

“I go to Hongjoong and Yeosang’s cafe a lot,” Mingi mumbles, stirring his tea as if it's anything more than sugar and lemon at this point. “I always manage to leave a part of myself behind, so they just started expecting it after a while.”

It’s an odd statement. How could someone who disappeared off of the face of the Earth ever leave something of himself behind? 

Yeosang chuckles, tearing open a packet of pink sweetener and dumping it into his mouth instead of his drink. His boyfriend watches in abstract horror as the paper flutters onto the table like snow. 

“Yeosang,” the boy groans, already shoving his face into his hands, “that’s disgusting.”

“You’ll still kiss me after this,” Yeosang snorts and reaches for another packet. “For those who haven’t had the misfortune of meeting my beautiful–” he cuts himself off as the other aims an elbow at his ribs.

“Choi Jongho,” the man says with a bashful smile, “at this point, I can’t tell if I’m his boyfriend or caretaker, but I’d like to think it’s the former.”

Yeosang chuckles again and leans into Jongho’s shoulder with a proud look. By all means, Yunho is thankful for the distraction from the unexpected party down the way. San obviously notices as he slips his fingers into Yunho’s with a sympathetic shrug.

And Mingi doesn’t miss it. Not with his gaze dancing down to their hands when San moves them to the surface of the table. Rightfully, though, he doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he just sits there. Like he expected worse. Like he didn’t even care.

And Yunho fights the urge to cry; plump angry tears, the salt of the sea stinging his cheeks. Did he truly mean so little to the other? All of their firsts dropped into a jar like wishes on folded paper only to be incinerated at an autumn bonfire. He knows he doesn’t matter, but he at least believed he sparked something at one time. 

Nostalgia be damned, he squeezes San’s fingers and concentrates on the lunch menu like his life depends on it.

“So, what are you studying, Mingi?” San asks, dripping with honey. “Must be something important. Since you’ve obviously avoided us this long, right?”

“Psychology,” he responds, “it’s been a goal of mine since I was a kid.” 

What surprises Yunho the most is the way Mingi doesn’t hesitate to answer San’s predatory questions. He spills out answer after answer: where he’s from and his favorite classes. What he does on the weekends and how he doesn’t really leave his dorm much. Everything that Yunho has desperately wanted to know, but could never ask. 

And when Mingi’s eyes finally linger on his face, as though there is a purpose in the heat that he pushes forth, Yunho realizes just how thin the tightrope they walk is.

“Bathroom,” he mumbles finally, wiggling free from San’s grip. Before his roommate can stand up from his seat, Yunho holds out a palm. A silent plea that San recognizes easily.

He flies into the restroom like a bat out of hell, offering a gentle apology when he bumps into some girl on his way there. 

The door clatters shut behind him just as his shaking limbs lower him to the floor of one of the stalls. The peach plastic walls close in, moving quite like funhouse mirrors, but as long as his eyes stay shut, nothing can touch him. Not even the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as he throws the seat down and rests his cheek on it. 

At least they were recently cleaned.

Minutes pass before footsteps clatter in after him. The heavy kind that comes from combat boots. Half of the group seems to wear them, so he takes a guess which member has trailed behind him.

“I’m fine, Seonghwa,” he breathes, heaving with the effort. The stall door rattles in response, but no one speaks. “Seriously, Hongjoong is probably wondering why you ran after your fuck-buddy.” 

“Good thing I’m not Seonghwa then,” a deep voice says, laden with molasses and brown sugar.  _ Mingi _ .

Yunho fights the urge to gag as his body involuntarily shakes again, spine rumbling deep within his bones. 

“Mingi,” he whimpers softly, hoping the other doesn’t catch the desperation that fissures his tone. 

“Is it because of me?” Mingi asks, kneeling to the bathroom tile. They can’t see each other, but Yunho is willing to bet that his ex-lover has his forehead pressed to the other side of the door. 

And Yunho wants to complain that the floor is filthy, but he knows that it won’t change things. 

“If I say yes, will you hate me more?” Yunho mumbles, but Mingi doesn’t answer. Instead, he sucks in a sharp breath and holds his tongue for what feels like eons. “If you hate me so fucking much, Mingi, then leave. You did it once, I don’t doubt that you can do it again.”

“I don’t hate you,” Mingi says suddenly, “I’ve never hated you, Yunho. That’s the problem.”

Yunho doesn’t dare lift his head. He can’t bear the thought of making eye contact through the minuscule crack in the door. Not with the tears finally spilling down his cheeks like eternal rain and morning dew. He’s certain, though, he’s nowhere near as beautiful.

That’s all poetic bullshit and he’s a mess in a university-brand restaurant. 

“Do you really think I would leave you without saying anything because I wanted to hurt you?”

“Yes!” Yunho cries, “I am fucking positive that someone does that if they want to set their past on fire and spread the god damn ashes, you asshole.” He doesn’t feel himself undoing the metal lock on the stall door, but he hears it.

He also hears Mingi shuffle away on his hands and knees before the cheap plastic is flung open. 

“Do you know what people do when they want to rip someone apart from the inside? They leave. They erase the past and pretend that it never happened.” 

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Fuck off with your excuses, Mingi. It may not have been your goddamn goal, but it is every ounce what you did. You hugged me, still wearing your stupid cap and gown, and then vanished.”

He pushes himself off of the tile and stumbles toward the sink. At least, he would wash his hands before he tried to catch an Uber home. There was no way in hell he was about to walk the whole way back to his dorms. But before he can, Mingi’s fingers close around his wrist. 

“Yunho, please,” he begs, still crumpled on the floor like a trampled daisy. And maybe he is because Yunho feels a pang in his chest when he stares down at the other. He wouldn’t call it a pathetic sight, but it’s far from righteous. Far from proud. Far from the gap-toothed grin that found its way into his dreams.

“What could you possibly have to say?”

“I just want to tell you the truth,” Mingi says, hardly above a whisper. “Will you give me the chance?”

It has to be a lucid dream. There is no other way to explain the absolutely unfeasible request.

“Why?” Yunho growls. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he hopes the sting hits Mingi. Like a thorn, he wants nothing more than for it to break skin and bead crimson. 

“I miss you,” Mingi says carefully, his gaze alert, “and I hurt you. If there’s anything I want to fix in life, it’s what happened between us.”

“Live for yourself,” Yunho says, shaking the other’s hold off. Before Mingi can follow him out of the bathroom, Yunho points his finger in the other’s face. “If you really want to talk, don’t corner me. You know how to reach me– it’s not like I changed any of my handles since high school. But for fuck’s sake, Mingi, give me a chance to process that you want to be part of my life again.”

“I can do that,” Mingi says quickly, taking a step forward before Yunho spits out an acidic, ‘don’t follow me’. 

He leaves the restaurant without turning back. Let Mingi explain exactly why Yunho stormed out of a lunch that he planned. San would bring him leftovers if he didn’t chase after him. 

But one thing was certain. Yunho felt like a wounded animal lashing out at the prospect of someone tugging a painful thistle from its fur. And being trapped with someone he once loved was a terrifying thought. 

**_8 • “Read me.”_ **

There isn’t a word to describe the weight of the world being thrust upon one’s shoulders. Or maybe there is, but Yunho doesn’t know it off the top of his head. Instead, he pulls his comforter to his chin and avoids looking at his phone in case a dreadful message appears. 

After he let his emotions overwhelm him, he curled up in bed and hoped that the memory would dissolve in the honey-hot cocoa he forced himself to drink. As though it would bring the warmth back into his limbs and stop the anxious buzz that never seemed to pass. 

It didn’t, of course.

Even when San pestered him for the entire weekend, begging him to do anything that wasn’t bingeing Netflix and sniffling into a half-stale bag of pull-apart Twizzlers. 

“I’ll suck your dick,” his roommate suggested, wiggling a brow, “you like that.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Yunho mumbled, shoving another gummy rope between his lips, “but I’d rather eat my sorrows.”

“Is there anything I can do, Yun?” he asks and snuggles closer to Yunho’s side. “Do you want cuddles? Those could be good, right?” 

When he nods, San takes the opportunity to snag one of the fuzzy blankets from the end of Yunho’s bed and rest his head on his shoulder. Things were difficult and cottony, but at least San understood. 

“You know I love you, right?” San says as one of the indie films they’re watching rolls through the credits. “The whole sappy nine-miles. Truly and honestly, I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”

“The idea of me, San,” Yunho murmurs, but threads his fingers through San’s anyway. “I think you love the idea of me.”

They don’t continue the conversation. Instead, San straddles his hips without another word and presses their lips together. San already knew, without Yunho having to say anything, that he couldn’t return his feelings. But for another night, they could pretend. And they could forget.

When morning light cascades over their golden skin, still bare and warm from sleep, Yunho glances at his phone. 

It’s been a full week, but Mingi hasn’t made a single move to text him.

Yunho doesn’t mind.

He goes home to visit family the next weekend, because obviously, the best way to avoid the past was to drown yourself in it.

He is sprawled on the hardwood floor of his childhood bedroom when a crack in the moulding catches his eye. 

The cantaloupe paint has long since peeled from the doorframe. Its white wood cracking under the pressure and wear of age, he can still see the lines drawn to track his height. But the things that matter most are the tattered and torn pages of memories stuffed into the largest fissure. 

Most are recorded on pieces of scrap paper. Old fortunes, notebook shreds, and waterlogged sticky notes. That’s why the single piece of weathered, tan parchment catches his eye. 

It’s impossible to tug from its secluded territory with his clumsy fingers. And he could just as well ask Gunho to come yank it out of the wall, but there’s no way his brother would let him keep such a treasure all to himself. Knowing the boy, he would tear back to his room with it as though he won the lottery. 

So, he crawls to his closet and pulls out a wire hanger. It’s probably overkill for such a tiny thing, but he’s desperate to know exactly what piece of nostalgia has been living in the crevice while he was away. 

Pushing the curved metal end into the crack, he fishes for an edge of some kind; whatever will let him truly grab onto the crinkling surface. At first, he misses once. Then, twice. But by the third, he’s certain he has it.

It springs free, fluttering to the ground with a graceful  _ clunk _ , and he can’t stop himself from scrambling to its resting place. 

It is a larger piece of paper, like something torn from a leather-bound sketchbook. The kind they used in art classes when they tried to embrace dark academia during the Twilight renaissance. While it has been folded into four, he sees the familiar scrawl of a soul so bruised glowering back at him like an omen.

‘Read me.’

It’s Mingi’s handwriting. The kind that sparks innocence and regret deep within Yunho’s spirit and drenches his bones in ice-cold water. Getting hit with a snowball would be a better experience than finding a note like this. 

Yet, he unfolds it with a held breath. 

_ ‘Hey, Yun. _

_ You finally found this. I don’t know how long it took– could have been a few days. Maybe years. Hell, you might not even be Jeong Yunho. (Though, if you aren’t, please just throw this away.) _

_ If you’re reading this, I’m probably not part of your life anymore. And if that’s the case, I’m so sorry.  _

_ I’ll start this by saying that I valued every second I spent with you. You made me see the sun as something poetic and taught me how to jump in sidewalk puddles just because we could. There was never a reason that I adored standing beside you; I just did.  _

_ Which is why I never wanted to leave. _

_ But sometimes, things happen that make us realize just how toxic we’ve become. When we started to drift apart, I thought that giving you everything would make me find some kind of purpose. Anything to fill that stupid empty hole in my chest that only pulsated when you were around.  _

_ I didn’t leave because of anything you did, so please don’t ever think that.  _

_ I love you. I love you so much; I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to start over and walk through life without you, but since we were kids, it’s always been you. And I’m realizing how desperately I need to take a step back.  _

_ If I stay in your light, I’m scared I’ll never find my own. And I don’t know how to tell you this to your face. _

_ One day, I hope you read this. Maybe you’ll reach out and pull me back to shore.  _

_ For now, I’m going to find my own path for a bit. So, please, don’t forget me. Don’t forget us. But don’t ever let me slow you down. I was never meant to be an anchor, Yun. And neither were you. _

_ Here’s to one day.’ _

The letter, Yunho realizes as he sets it on the hardwood, explains shit-fuck nothing. 

So, maybe it’s reasonable that he screams into his pillow until his voice is hoarse, tears flowing freely.

When he sends the message, it’s with a shattered spirit and frustrated heart. He wants nothing more than to be angry– to let Mingi know the pain that he’s felt– but he also knows better. What good would it do to sour low-hanging fruit? 

Evidently, the other has long since unblocked him on Instagram. It’s the only place that his username is the same, probably because it’s still the iconic  _ ‘FixSong’ _ brand he’s been catering to for years. A quick flip through his upload feed proves that Mingi only uses the app to post photos of his OOTDs and occasional selfies taken in the sanctuary of the cafe. 

Yunho bites his nails as he thinks of what to say. Would Mingi just ignore him? It wasn’t likely, not now, but there was always a chance that their red thread wasn’t meant to tangle up on the conspiracy board again. 

With a sigh, he takes a picture of the note and attaches it to a single sentence.

‘whenever you’re ready for one day.’

**_9 • “again”_ **

Apologies aren’t meant to be easy nor are they usually beautiful. Not when they’re filled to the brim with unspoken feelings and the gnashing teeth of still simmering tension. 

Up close, now that Yunho doesn’t have the intense urge to slam his fist into Mingi’s jaw, he can see just how their time apart has changed the other man. His eyes have become far sharper, more calculating. As though he’s observing Yunho’s every move and just waiting for him to bolt. 

For a second, he feels small. Despite initiating this conversation on his own terms, and making sure Mingi knew his limits, he can’t help his heart from drumming a war song in his chest. He’s less the predator and more the prey.

“You look good,” Yunho says finally, bringing the straw of his iced white mocha to his lips. He doesn’t take a sip until he sees Mingi’s gaze dart around the room– like he’s looking for a hidden camera. “I’m serious, Mingi. You look happier.”

“Do I?” the other asks, cocking his head, “I don’t feel it.”

“Just diving right into the deep end from the start then,” Yunho laughs, finally relaxing into his seat. “Shit, there really isn’t a point in tiptoeing around everything, is there?”

Mingi frowns and fiddles with the red wire of his earbuds. His nimble fingers tie it into a thin knot. 

“Not really,” he shrugs, “you read what I wrote in that letter. It all was the truth, but there’s so much more I couldn’t even think to fit–”

“When did you write it?” Yunho asks abruptly, “I just found it the day I messaged you.”

Mingi tugs one of the knot’s ends until the whole thing pops apart. His brows furrow, like he’s trying to remember something, before sighing. 

“The night before graduation,” he says faintly, “you were talking about your future and I was drowning. I had it written before I came over, so I just tucked it in there when you were in the bathroom.” 

He remembers it. Their graduation ceremonies were being held in the same convocation center, so of course, their moms thought it would be brilliant for them to get ready together. But there had been that damned unspoken tension between the two of them for God knows how long. 

The kind where they didn’t address it and let it fester; as though ignoring it would solve their problems. Even so, Yunho never thought in a million years that Mingi would have vanished without a trace before they could clear it up.

Staring at the ghost before him, he still doesn’t know what to think. He grits his teeth when Mingi looks like he has something else to say. 

“I was wrong,” Mingi squares his shoulders as he speaks, suddenly confident. “The way I left things, the uncertainty in the way I spoke back then, all of it. I should have treated you with the respect you deserved. But I didn’t do it out of malice, Yunho.”

“It sure felt like–”

“Give me a moment, please,” Mingi says. It’s not a demand; it’s a polite request that snaps Yunho’s mouth shut in an instant. “Our relationship was taking a toll on both of us. I felt possessive over you, more often than I felt anything else, because I was afraid of losing you to the future you always looked forward to. When you gave up on performing, I blamed myself for holding you back. And that scared me.”

Yunho frowns, eyebrows furrowing. 

Being a dancer was a pastime; not his life goal. And while Mingi spoke of Yunho being set in his future path as high schoolers, that had never been something they sat down and talked about. If anything, Mingi’s dream of studying psychology had been the only thing set in stone while they were together.

But Yunho doesn’t say those things. Rather, he holds out his shaking hand and wiggles his fingers until Mingi takes them. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, staring intently at the mole beneath Mingi’s eye. “I gave up on performing because I was desperate to find something more lucrative. I was afraid of falling behind you and tried to stay on track. Obviously, though, I just made a mess, didn’t I?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mingi whispers, squeezing his palm. “You used to tell me everything, and then suddenly, I felt like I knew nothing.”

“I think that goes both ways, Mingi,” he says, gaze dropping to the table, “I think we were both just fools in love.”

When he leaves the cafe, it’s with Mingi’s actual phone number and a napkin scrawled with a single word. 

‘again’.

**_10 • “Always.”_ **

There’s not always time for second chances. 

Though somehow, they had been given one. Every day, Yunho rebuilt the memories that he had lost to the sands of the hourglass. Simple things. Mingi’s favorite cereal and whether he preferred the ‘Donut Shop’ blend or ‘French Roast’. At some point, he was certain the other man was just making up words when he handed Yunho a grocery list. 

Mingi was to the morning like the moon was to the dusk. Which was to say, present, but possibly not thrilled about it. Even at thirty years old, when Yunho woke him with a dozen featherlight kisses placed across the canvas of bare skin, moving Mingi from the bed at the ass-crack of dawn was impossible.

However, he was more than content to press his lips against Yunho’s, ick-breath be damned, as he made sure his lover never forgot the feeling of worship on his way into work.

Loving, he realizes, is no different from learning. Only with this go-around, there was no finish line in sight. They weren’t children tied to academia anymore. And even after the university graduation, where they could have just gone their separate ways, Mingi never stopped teaching him.

Soulmates probably didn’t exist, even if his friends insisted that they did. But the thought of something not being set in stone didn’t exactly bother him– not anymore. 

He found happiness in the arms of a dandelion fluff who never seemed to want to drift away again. And for him, that was a match made in heaven. 

But the hands of time stop for no one. 

-

Yunho doesn’t think much of the rain when he gets in his car at 7:45 AM. He had been working as a dance instructor since they escaped the hellish bonds of university, but as much as he adored the promise of the studio’s ethereal silence early in the morning, the drive was always nightmarish. 

They didn’t live far from the main hustle and bustle of town, but a particularly bad blind-spot always made getting onto the highway difficult. And today, it’s no better as the fog blankets the road and the majority of the signage bordering the asphalt. 

On most days, he loved the way the river’s misty eye caught his attention. But today, it’s a siren song luring him far from home. 

He can honestly say that he didn’t feel anything when the crash happened. 

There was a deer, a beautiful little thing bathed in golden dew. She had been standing off to the side of the road, hardly toeing the white line. But something startled her and she took off into his path as though she belonged there. Maybe she did.

He doesn’t know if it made a sound when he swerved, still sideswiping her, and crashed into the median rail. From his direction, a van T-boned his tiny Chevy Cruze. He remembers ping-ponging, once off the metal, twice off the van, and a third off of the deer who had unfortunately not made it off of the highway in time. 

He remembers hoping, desperately, that the doe was alright. 

He remembers his car dipping its toes in the river, testing to see if the waters were warm enough, and then the sound of metal shrieking as it took the dive. 

He remembers seeing the note that Mingi tossed into his lunchbox the night before drift slowly in front of his blurry, waterlogged gaze. The ink was running down the fluorescent orange paper, but it was still legible. And it made him laugh, silly carbonated bubbles that danced from his paling lips. 

He remembers serenity. 

And he will never forget, “Always.”

  
  


**_11 • “smile”_ **

**** “How many stars do you think there are?” Yunho asks. 

They’d been doing this forever. Counting anything they could and pretending that there were infinite stories stapled to each one. Reading the notes that Yunho had shoved between the wall and the doorframe. 

Seonghwa always thought they were interesting, even if they had been over them a hundred times. 

The biggest problem was that death never came with an instruction manual. 

“Billions,” Seonghwa says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. He couldn’t taste it, of course, but he always said that the warmth made him feel alive. “Why?”

“Because I think that one is my favorite,” Yunho gestures vaguely toward a single speck on the distant horizon. Beneath it rests an inky abyss of navy and red. The ocean never reflected what they saw; the changing skies or the brilliant auroras. 

The things that Seonghwa always said Hongjoong would have loved the most out of all of them. Unfortunately, he hadn’t come through yet. 

Like a distant song in the back of his mind, he remembers his father’s words,  _ “If someone isn’t there when a loved one dies, did they ever live at all? Or do they wander endlessly, not realizing that they’ve even passed, because no one was there to tell them?”  _

Yunho had learned that such musings only applied when there was no one left to remember your name. Even so, neither spirit wanted to leave this place until they saw their soul’s own reflections; their better halves. He always ignored the way Seonghwa sang the word, ‘soulmates’ during one of his spiels.

Maybe it was morbid to wait for your lover to finally pass, but they had spent more than enough time living. There was a whole future ahead of them here, after all. 

Hongjoong had already survived Seonghwa by thirty years. Seonghwa, whose life had been taken far too soon by something as common as a heart attack. Whenever Yunho mentioned it, calling it the fault of his obsession with romance, the other would only roll his eyes.

They didn’t talk about their deaths here, but the closer they got to the future, the more impatient Seonghwa became. It was only a matter of years before the final two, particularly stubborn, souls joined them.

Everyone else had already visited.

And now, Seonghwa seems to ponder his words before asking, “Which star?” 

There’s curiosity in his tone. Or amusement. Yunho still hadn’t learned to decipher the two.

“That one. My star 1117,” Yunho grins, “yours is probably different, depending on where you started counting.” 

He dodges the hit Seonghwa tries to land on his shoulder. Or he would have if the man had even attempted it. Instead, he’s staring into the distance, somewhere behind Yunho, with a horrified look. 

When the tears begin to fall, Yunho thinks he understands why before he even turns around.

“Hey, daisy,” Mingi says softly. 

Here, he hasn’t aged a day past the last time Yunho saw him. For a moment, he wishes that he could have witnessed it. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the permanent smile lines. Seventy-year-old Mingi was probably more radiant than natural turquoise. 

“Did you know Hongjoong never learned how to swim? Did us both a lot of good, that one,” he chuckles, especially as Hongjoong barrels out from behind him and slams into Seonghwa’s embrace. “Sorry I couldn’t save him. But I figured you wouldn’t mind too much, hyung.”

He glances to the box that Yunho cradles in his arms, eyes soft, and reaches in to pull out a random note. When he turns it around, Yunho realizes it’s his lover’s rain-smudged handwriting. 

A fluorescent orange sticky note broadcasting a childish reminder to ‘smile’.

**Author's Note:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> (another vent fic, sorry y'all ^^;; my past came back to haunt me a few weeks ago and i've been ouchie bc i'm lonely).
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


End file.
